Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Several years ago, in the Greek city of Sparta, sitting poolside drinking a glass of Prosecco, I was stung by a mosquito. Instantly, I felt the pain and within a few minutes, my neck swelled to the size of a football. The resort doctor was summoned from his game of tennis. He asked if I could breathe; I said yes, but he instructed that I get to the hospital immediately. One of the security guards whisked me off. After getting me registered, he drove off. Only a single doctor spoke English. Over the course of six hours while enduring a battery of tests by men in white lab coats, I kicked myself for not learning Modern Greek before departing the U.S.

I must be among at least a million people who plan to learn another language before a trip overseas but never follow through. I download the apps: Babbel, Duolingo, Rosetta Stone. I listen to hours of instructional videos on YouTube. I buy books in other languages, with hopes I become proficient enough to do more than order a cup of coffee. My best intention is to integrate into the rhythm of a country, beyond that of merely a tourist. Truth is, I lack the discipline and am made lazier by English as the lingua franca of tourism. Thus, forever I am banished to the bubble of monolinguists.

Part of my wish to learn a language is a belief that I will be a better poet, that I will get closer to the whirling center of this multilingual craft. I love the poetry of poets from different regions in the world. I have an expectation that I would learn more if I knew their original language, their use of sound, how they think without the intervention of a translator.

Today’s poem celebrates the power of speaking multiple languages, of having options to fulfill poetry’s demand to achieve ever more expression of human emotion.

Areyto for the Shipwrecked: The Case for Spanglish
by Vincent Toro

Because a corazón is more resilient than a heart, sangre richer than
blood. Because when my abuelo’s spleen ruptured right there on
Queens Boulevard he yanked himself up with nothing but smog
to hold onto and walked home fifteen blocks before collapsing
on the bathroom floor. That takes babilla. Simple courage won’t do.
Because songs are nice but a cancion bathes inside the veins.
The dankdim nightclub lounges of my youth gave me confidence,
it’s true, but only Hector Lavoe’s rooster calls can resurrect the dead,
only Celia’s “azucar!” incites warring tribes to fall in love. Because
an abrazo can shield you from famine and flame. A hug just lacks
that kind of sorcery. Because bochinche is both science and art.
It can turn men into rats and spread through the respiratory system
like a viral infection. Gossip is clearly no match for bochinche.
Because el sol is spirit. The sun, her child. And a besito is sweeter
than any kiss. Because arboles are monasteries for the lost, while
men don’t think twice about felling trees. Because dios inspires
humility like no god can. Because vida blossoms from the mouth
like a fulgent garden, whereas life is merely the title of a children’s
 
                                                                                  game, a syllable in search of a hyphen.

“Areyto for the Shipwrecked: The Case for Spanglish” by Vincent Toro from TERTULIA © 2020, Vincent Toro. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.